La Mariposa The Butterfly
by pray for hope
Summary: “Oh, Toulouse,” she giggled, “You make me laugh.” [ToulouseOC, a bit AU]


_Author's Note: I've recently become obsessed with Moulin Rouge! So this is the result. It's a little AU and I'm pretty sure OOC, and I know that the Argentinean's name isn't Archie but I needed a name for him. So enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing except Chrystal. (I wish I owned the Argentinean in.)_

**OOOOOOO**

Her name was Chrystal. She was a dancer.

She was originally the Argentinean's whore, giggling and whispering secrets backstage. He called her Mariposa, for she had once told him that her real name was Chrysalis, like a butterfly with clipped wings. He had laughed and renamed her Chrystal, the most beautiful of them all.

Well, almost. Nobody was beautiful next to Satine. But that was a different story.

She was Mariposa only to him, though, for she danced and flung her legs open as Chrystal. After, though, she would come into Archie's bed and sleep, because she could never sleep in the small bed Zidler afforded her.

Then one day, Archie twirled her around and flung her at Toulouse.

"You take her, Toulouse," he growled, "I've got other plans tonight."

She called him a desire-ridden little gnome, sometimes mockingly and sometime affectionately, for he was. He had always been. For his love-starved heart ached for some one, anyone to fill the gap between his ribs.

"Oh, Toulouse," she giggled, "You make me laugh."

For weeks he watched her, his eyes caressing his skin, his cane tapping in time to the music that supported her. She was passed through the men like the whore she was, her hair piled on top of her head, her face blank and expressionless.

One night she wandered into his room, looking for Archie, her hair and bodice slipping down, down. She only found him, courting the Green Fairy, his shirt already undone.

"Oh well," she sighed, shoving another glass at him.

Somehow, sometime during the long muddled evening, they ended up tangled together, her body pressed against his.

"Toulouse," she whispered, her dusky curls brushing his unshaven cheek, "Toulouse, why do you love me?"

"Bwecause," he murmured, "Bwecause I dwo."

"Alright," she whispered, pulling his hand around to cup the small of her back.

She was on top.

From that night on, she led every other man out onto the dance floor. Every man except him.

But after, when they were alone, she'd dance for him and only him, her hair taunting him, her fingers dancing along his collarbone until he wouldn't be able to take it and would toss her onto the bed, laughing with glee.

One afternoon she sat in his bed, smoking a cigarette and reading her lines for Spectacular Spectacular, the white bed sheet pulled tight around her.

"Chwissy," he said, looking at her from under his eyelids, "Chwissy, do you love me?"

She paused, stubbing out her cigarette and letting the pages fall to the floor, "Of course I do, Toulouse. It's my job."

"No, I mwean…" he trailed off, feeling her watching him, "Weally, weally, love. Me."

She stared at him, her eyes gently searching his face. He avoided eye contact, instead fiddling with the sheet.

"Toulouse…" she whispered, her voice tender, like he had never heard it before. Then the sheets settled, and she curled up next to him, for once her head on his shoulder.

She called him her little love, _mon petit amour,_ and he'd laugh, because he didn't know any other languages but loved her anyway.

But after a while, a few weeks, once he'd found Christian and Christian had found Satine, she changed. There were no more late nights, no more kisses, no more anything. She was the Argentinean's whore again and no matter how many he flung her at him, she always turned away again.

And he turned back into the arms of the Green Fairy. He had been doing so well.

Some weeks later, after Satine died, after Christian disappeared, after the Moulin Rouge closed, she returned to him, the night rain soaking her hair through, her shirt wet and bloodied, leaning on the Argentinean for support. He stumbled over to her, the Green Fairy making his legs hard to maneuver. She let go of Archie and crumpled to the floor.

"Toulouse, Toulouse," she wept, reaching up to him, her hands around his neck, "Oh Toulouse, I couldn't…I left and all I could think about was….was you and ….I don't want to be like Satine, I don't want to lose you and Toulouse…Toulouse, my Toulouse my little love, I…"

"Mawy me," he breathed, clutching her to his chest, "Mawy me."

She stared up at him through tear-stained eyes, Archie standing impassively in the doorway.

"Yes," she whispered, "Yes."

They were married a few days later, Archie the only witness. He gave her away and she had to bend to kiss him, but it was perfect anyway.

They moved into a small apartment in Paris, on the other side of town from the Moulin Rouge. Archie moved in with them too, of course. Between the three of them it was just enough to pay the rent.

"I'll have to start whoring again," she said one night, as Archie slumped in his chair at the miniscule kitchen table and he counted the money one last time, "It's the only way."

He nodded, because she was right. The money was too short. They'd need a new show or an old whore. It was the only way.

So she started selling herself again. Often times she would come home and pour a scalding bath, because she didn't like going to bed with the scents of other men on her. Sometimes she sobbed into his shoulder, because she'd been having nightmares about the violent ones, the ones that kept wanting more, more, more. He didn't know what to say then, and would just hug her until the tears subsided and the pain seemed to ease. And the money poured in.

And so they lived, the three of them, lost in the memories of the Moulin Rouge and the lights and the glitter. She stayed with him because she loved him, but selled herself at night. He loved her, but the Green Fairy called him when she was away.

"I need you," he whispered to her as she slept, her slim naked form curled against him.

"What?" she stirred, eyelashes fluttering.

"I need you." He stroked her shoulder and she instinctively flung her arm across his bare chest.

"I know, darling," she whispered, "I love you too."

He tipped her head up for a kiss.

They were married for a great many more years after that, but oddly enough, never had any children. Instead, she was a surrogate mother to Archie's child after he got Nini pregnant and she left him with the child, a girl he called Roxanne Satine. He still courted the Green Fairy, yes, but not as much as he used to. She still whored, yes, but once they got enough money she didn't have to.

And so they lived. Happily ever after.

"Toulouse," she whispered, her dusky curls covering both of them, "Toulouse, I love you."

He died with a smile on his face.

_Review, please._


End file.
